


ocean front property

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Wings, Cats, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forgiveness, Home, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moving, Post-Season/Series 11, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Castiel has been missing for four months—and Dean can't let him go.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 157
Collections: Angel’s Supernatural favorites





	1. Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Post-S11 where instead of Mary, Amara allowed them to live, hands-off.

The bottom falls out of the sky before Dean can get out of the car.

Granted, that in itself is a feat. Lightning cracks, thunder roars, and Dean bleeds, leaving a mess behind in the front seat. The one saving grace that he desperately needs, and this place doesn’t have a garage or a carport, or even a tree to park under. He pulls to a stop and cuts the engine, yanking the key from the ignition. Arm wrapped around his stomach, he pops open the door and kicks it shut, running the three feet necessary to leap onto the porch. He slips and catches himself with his busted hand, screaming above the noise of the storm.

The last he heard, Greg kept the spare key in the mailbox, taped to the bottom with a piece of duct tape. Eyes stinging and wrist absolutely throbbing, Dean reaches in and rips the tape off at the edge, afterward snagging the key. The lock gives easily, and he steps inside, surrounded by the pitch-black nothingness of a farmhouse. Said farmhouse, he can’t even see, his worldview darkened by the storm raging outside. He makes out the shape of a staircase in between flashes of light, along with a living room and a den. Upstairs, there has to be a bed or two, somewhere where he can rest for the night.

Right now, stitching up his stomach takes priority.

He uses his good hand as a guide, sweeping his fingers along the walls until he runs into a couch or a chair. Once, he trips over the rug and nearly flies into a lamp twice as old as him. Somehow, he manages his way through the living room and happens upon two doorways in the hall leading to the kitchen. To his right, he finds a bottomless pit that must be the basement.

The second door turns out to be a half bathroom. Flipping a switch, he squints against the sudden light and the brightness of the sink basin. The toilet is fairly new, and the wallpaper is an atrocious shade of red, with white lines running up and down the length of it. Worst of all, he sees himself and the blood pouring from the wound to his temple. Through his shirt, blood seeps through, dying his hand. “No,” he whispers. The lights flicker dangerously. “No, no, not here.”

He can’t die here. Sam doesn’t know where he is, and Castiel—

 _Don’t think about him_.

The medicine cabinet comes up empty save for a bottle of expired painkillers. In the cabinet over the toilet, though, he finds the jackpot—a box of medical supplies and a sewing kit with needles still in sterile packaging. “Thank you,” he says to no one and rips several gauze strips from the box. Needles and antiseptic set aside, Dean runs the tap and strips his shirt off, arms protesting with the strain.

Objectively, the cut doesn’t look that bad, but it bleeds, and Dean feels lightheaded just looking at it. A four-inch slice to his stomach, deep enough to need stitches but nowhere close to gutting him. “Fucker got me good,” he mumbles. From under the sink, he grabs a washrag and wets it, just enough to wash off the blood. After, he rinses it clean and goes about dabbing at his face, his skin gradually coming clean.

He looks awful—he feels even worse, and even after he pops four Ibuprofen and stitches up the wound, he’s still lightheaded. Waning adrenaline, a feeling he knows all too well—and Dean barely makes it to the couch before he slumps into the cushions, the storm raging on, but the rest of the world silent, dark. _Cold_.

The cold follows him into his dreams, as it always does.

These nights, he barely sleeps, his consciousness waning enough to let him rest, but somehow, he remembers everything going on around him: the voices, the footsteps, the eyes staring back at him, the ones he can’t forget. Around him, he vaguely knows the clouds are still pouring, but someone watches him from the corner. He can’t move—can barely breathe, and yet the thing walks across the room, formless and as frigid as ice. It comes to rest at Dean’s side, kneeling, smelling of wet hay.

 _Dean_ , it whispers, again and again, his name a prayer in the vision’s mouth. Apparitions of fingers dance through his hair, and icy breath puffs across his cheek. If this is a dream, then it’s the most realistic one he’s ever had. The few times he ever experienced sleep paralysis, it wasn't like this. There was more… terror, a weight sitting on his chest, knowing that he couldn't move, no matter how hard he fought.

But here, the vision speaks to him, calling him. Its words grow more frantic, until all at once, it flickers out of sight, and Dean wakes up gasping in the daylight. Sun pours through the windows, and the last of the rain trickles through the downspouts, pattering off the tin porch roof. His head throbs, his wrist even worse.

It took longer this time, to wake up. But normally, he can’t feel in his dreams. Most of the time, he sees shadows and hears voices, but they never try to touch him, never fully speak his name.

 _He’s close_ , Dean thinks. But not close enough—Castiel isn’t with him.

Hi phone rings, vibrating through the back pocket of his jeans. Sluggish, Dean manages to wrench the device free, tapping the screen, then the speaker button. “Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam accuses. Just how he wants to start the morning, by being scolded. “I’ve been trying to call you for hours. It’s almost noon, man.”

Noon? “Shit,” he hisses, rubbing his eyes. Setting his phone on his stomach, Dean rubs his wrist, willing the pain to subside. “Don’t know what time I got here. Fucker just—since when do demons carry machetes, man?”

“Probably the same time they started carrying angel blades,” Sam says. “How bad is it?”

“Not terrible.” Dean spares his stomach a glance. Thankfully, it doesn’t look as bad as last night. No blood seeps through the stitches, and the skin around the wound is only slightly inflamed. No infection then. Somehow, he made it out alive. “The guy said he knew where Cas was, and I—I believed him.” A laugh, pained. “He told me to go to the middle of bumfuck nowhere, and he’d be in a barn, but all I found were two fucking demons.”

“Did you kill them?” Sam asks. Dean affirms with a grunt, not trusting himself to speak. “Look, Dean, it’s been… I know you care about him. I do too, but you’ve gotta think about this rationally. It’s been four months. Maybe he just—went back to Heaven.”

“No.” Castiel wouldn't leave him, not after everything they just went through. After the Mark and Amara, after every sacrifice Castiel has ever made for them, there’s no way he would leave. Not now, not when they were so close to… “I can’t believe you’d say that, man.”

“Just—I don’t wanna think about it either, but it’s not like Cas has ever stuck around—”

“But he just moved in,” Dean balks, sitting up.

His stitches strain, begging him to lie back down. He can’t. He has to keep moving, has to see if there’s any truth to what the demon said. Maybe he checked the wrong barn, and they planned on ganging up on him no matter where he went. There have to be other farms close by. Maybe someone knows something and isn’t letting on. Or worst-case scenario, maybe Castiel is actually in Heaven. Hopefully in that case, not of his own free will—because if he left intentionally, Dean might never forgive him.

“Look, I know him, man,” he starts again. Swinging his legs over the side of the couch, Dean stands, unsteady on his feet. He needs sugar, and the snack cakes in the Impala barely count as food. “And Cas wouldn't run off if it wasn't for a reason.”

“All I’m saying is think about it.” On the other end, Sam huffs his way through a sigh. “Are you heading back home? Or do I need to I come down and meet you?”

He shouldn't. Sam is probably enjoying the only bit of alone time he’s ever had, and dragging him back into the thick of it seems like a cruel joke. But if he ends up finding Castiel, then he needs help—if he doesn’t, then they can always drive back to Lebanon. Rural Georgia is a two-day drive at the least, a trip he doesn’t want to make Sam have to make if he doesn’t have to. “I’m gonna look around,” Dean decides. “If I don’t find anything by tonight, I’ll call you.”

“Good deal.”

They sign off with clipped goodbyes, and Dean shoves his phone back into his pocket. Almost on cue, his stomach growls, loud in the quiet of the room. Late into summer and breaching autumn, and he hears nothing—no crickets, no wailing cicadas, not even a lone frog loitering near the porch. Like outside the house, the life has been drained from the land.

It should be a clue—or an omen. Whatever the reason, Dean takes it at face value and wanders outside. Sunlight meets him on the other side of the screen door, along with a swamp of humidity and moderately warm temperatures. Sweat clings to his nape and under his armpits; stripping out of shirt, he pops open the rear door and throws it inside, grabbing a two-pack of Twinkies in exchange. Not exactly nutritional, but the second he gets into town, he’ll find the nearest drive-thru and motel and crash for the night, in a place with a shower and fresh linens.

In the daylight, the house is beautiful, really. All over the country, Bobby once kept a log of all of the safehouses, with this one being low on the list. So low, that for years, Dean wondered if it ever existed. A three-bedroom farmhouse in the middle of nowhere Georgia, painted white with a black-shingled roof, two chimneys, and a massive dormer on the second floor. Supposedly, Bobby instructed hunters to set up a library here, but whether or not they did is something Dean intends to find out later.

The rest of the property, from what he can see, is vast. The home sits in a clearing, surrounded by pines and oaks, shielded from passersby. A mile on either side from any road—just where a place like this should be. It’s been well-taken care of, considering. An idea flutters through Dean’s mind, but he shoves it down. Just another fantasy. Right now, finding Castiel is top priority.

Shoveling down his excuse for food, Dean throws back half of a water bottle and slams the door shut. From what he can see, no other buildings sit in the general area, aside from a toolshed to the right of the house. Branches litter the yard and the tree line from last night’s storm, and an entire pine sits sideways, blocking a walking path on the other side of the clearing. It’s a lead—an excuse to get moving. But his legs feel like lead, and his heart pounds, beating out a litany of ‘what ifs’ against his ribcage.

Probably nothing—but maybe something.

That alone makes Dean walk, quicker than probably necessary. Stepping over the fallen tree, he wanders through the woods, his shadow dancing between the light streaming through the pines. No sound greets him other than branches snapping under his boots. The thought of cursed land crosses his mind, but every other place he’s visited with similar auras always had at least the inkling of something being alive there. Fear settles into his gut, growing in the distance he puts between himself and the Impala. If something were to attack him, he wouldn't be able to make it back.

Another clearing comes into view a dozen feet away, smaller than where the house sits. Stepping out of the shadows, Dean’s stomach drops at the sight of a barn with a massive oak leaning into the side, the back half torn apart. Somehow, the building still stands, red paint chipping, doors chained shut. They give with little effort, the lock falling to the muddy earth. _It’s just a barn_ , he tells himself, shoving one of the massive double doors open. _There’s nothing there_.

On every hunt, Dean prepares himself for the worst. Seeing bodies for a living is one thing, but over the years, he’s begun to emphasize with them, wondering what their last moments must have been like, especially with children. Half of him expects a nest of vampires to jump out at him, or a few rogue werewolves trying to find shelter from the storm.

What he finds is an angel, strung up to the rafters by crane hooks through the bones of its pitch-black wings, wrists tied and hoisted up above its head. Dean’s stomach leaps into his throat, and by the power of sheer determination, he manages to keep bile from coming up. Not just any angel—an angel he’s known for nearly a decade, pale and barely breathing, if at all, stripped down to nothing with runes carved into his feet and hands. A burn decorates his right hip, scorching where once, he bore a tattoo.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, winded. No movement—no sound, save for Dean’s labored breathing. Not even the wind blows. “Castiel?”

Another breath—Castiel doesn’t move. His fear turns to abject horror. Before him is the one person he’s been looking for for months, and Castiel is dead. Dead, or almost there. The rational part of his brain tells him to climb the stairs into the loft and cut Castiel down—the more emotional part, though, overrides everything else. Falling to his knees, Dean sucks in air his lungs refuse to hold. Tears spill; he can’t keep his breakfast down a second time, his stomach clenching and tearing at itself after he finishes.

Above him, Castiel’s lifeless body hangs, head drooped, eyes closed. At least if he died, then he did it in peace.

His body moves of its own accord while the rest of him sits still, watching from below. Heart heavy, he climbs the ladder and starts unhooking Castiel, starting with his wings. Castiel is cold, with an underlying hint of warmth in his feathers, warm enough to make Dean believe, even for a split second. The worst part, besides wrenching the hooks out of Castiel’s bones, is knowing that once he finishes, then Castiel will collapse, and his wings will shatter on impact.

There’s no other way to get him down. No ladder, no landing pad, nothing to cushion the fall. The second Dean pulls the first hook free, Castiel’s wing collapses, slumping toward the floor. The second follows, and the rafters shudder, holding up Castiel purely by his wrists and a length of rope. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to no one, pulling a switchblade from his back pocket. “You don’t know how sorry I am.”

The rope gives on first swipe—distantly, he watches Castiel fall, crumping into a mass of broken feathers. At least his wings broke his fall—he can’t say the same about the rest of him.

Silence resumes in the wake of the collapse, a rain of dust and hay settling onto the floor. Gradually, Dean makes his way down and kneels in front of Castiel, his eyes still closed, but tighter now, like even in death, he’s pained. Dean can’t move him like this, with his wings mangled and limp. Bits of feathers poke out in every direction, and the topmost arch of each wing has split in two, effectively breaking them in half. His left wing severed close to the base; Dean reaches into the mass and pulls it away, revealing the fresh skin covering Castiel’s back, unlike the rot he expected.

It gives him hope—but that hope is shot. Because even if Castiel is alive, then he can’t live with his wings like this. If he ever wakes up, Castiel will never forgive him. He can handle the heartache, so long as Castiel lives. Even if it’s not with him, if Castiel can’t look him in the eye again, then at least he made the right decision.

He does what he has to, and slices through the shattered bone of Castiel’s remaining wing, severing it from his torso.

A shuddering breath rips its way from Castiel’s lungs, sounding eerily like a rattle—Dean rallies to him, mindless, and checks his face, looking for any sign of life. Nothing comes, save for a shallow breath, maybe once a minute, maybe two. The runes make sense, if someone attempted to bind his Grace, but how he’s survived this long might as well be a miracle.

 _Miracles don’t exist_.

“Alright,” Dean whispers, gathering Castiel into his arms. He gets his arms up under Castiel’s knees and around his back, mindful of the place where his wings once grew. Lighter now, but still heavy, his body mostly muscle. Dean’s knees ache just holding him. “Rowena,” he announces. Calling her would probably be better, but getting his phone out of his pocket would require another hand. “I know we’re not exactly buddies, but I’m kinda in a bind?”

It won’t work, but it’s a shot. With the last of his strength, Dean carries Castiel out of the barn, leaving behind the remnants of his wings. The walk through the woods is even lonelier now, two bodies traveling but only one breathing. He holds Castiel as close as he can, looking straight ahead. Later, he’ll regret not searching hard enough, he’ll regret cutting off Castiel’s wings, but for now, he walks. With stinging eyes and an ache in his back, he carries Castiel to the house, occasionally brushing his nose against Castiel’s cold temple.

“Please wake up,” he whispers, broken. “Please come back to me.”

A familiar mop of red hair stands on the porch, arms folded over her burgundy dress. She looks less than pleased, even at a distance, her scowl more recognizable than her face. “Darling,” Rowena calls from halfway across the clearing. She doesn’t make an attempt to move, and Dean doesn’t blame her. “I was in the middle of my mid-afternoon bath, and you—Oh, Tweety.”

Rowena runs—or, walks briskly, really—to meet Dean. He can’t stop walking, not now—not until he gets Castiel inside. “Walk, walk,” Dean says, automatic, and Rowena follows.

“I don’t know why, but I feel like apologies are in order,” she says, but Dean shakes his head. It’s not her fault. She tried to help with location spells and her own brand of magic, but nothing came of it. “How did you find him?”

Dean doesn’t answer. Doesn’t know if he can, actually. Rowena walks ahead, mud decorating the soles of her heels, and holds the door open, allowing Dean through. He could put Castiel on the dining table, but the couch is closer, and probably more comfortable. The minute Dean sets Castiel down—the minute he loses contact—he collapses to his knees, held upright only by Rowena’s steady hands.

“Easy, easy,” she soothes, helping him sit. The room spins. An inhuman sob rips its way free from his lungs. “It’s alright, handsome. You brought him back.”

“I cut off his wings,” Dean croaks. Tears scorch his face; all he wants to do is drown in them. “I cut him down, and he fell, and—”

Rowena shushes him with a soft breath. Kneeling, she pulls him against her, his head pressing into the front of her dress. She’s warm, so unlike Castiel, so unlike his heart, now shattered like the wings he left behind. “You did what you had to,” she says, petting through his hair. “I’d do the same, if it were someone I loved.”

Love. _Love._ What Dean feels isn’t love. It goes beyond that, deeper, richer. Castiel is tattooed on his body and soul, and now he’s dying, and Dean can’t live without him.

Reluctantly, Dean pulls away from Rowena’s embrace and looks at Castiel’s body, at the near-invisible rise and fall of his chest. Gently—more tender than Dean has ever seen her—Rowena takes one of Castiel’s hands and turns his palm. Her brow furrows, lips pursed in thought. “How did you find him again, dear?”

Dean rests his forehead against the couch cushion, closing his eyes. Light hurts—breathing, even worse. “I’ve been having… visions,” he admits, for the first time in months. Not even Sam knows, and the last time he met up with Rowena, he had wanted to say something. “I’ve just felt… cold, ever since he left, and I keep seeing shit, things I can’t even describe, like… One minute, I’ll be standing somewhere, and the next, I’m in a void, and there’s screaming, and wings, and… And last week, I got a call. Someone said they found him, but when I got here, ‘found’ turned into ‘holding him captive,’ and I got… Two demons tried to kill me.” A breath. “They said they had him, and I believed them.”

Low, Rowena hums, then tsks. “I trust you killed them?”

“Course,” Dean mutters. “Not before they tried to rip out my kidney.”

“That saves me from having to interrogate them myself,” Rowena chirps. “My methods are a bit more unorthodox, as you’ve seen.”

Of course Dean has seen—Rowena sicced Castiel on him over a year ago, and nearly killed him in the process. “You know what they mean? The…” He waves at Castiel’s hand.

“It’s a binding spell,” Rowena confirms, although slightly unsure. “It’s old magic, though. Older than my time, I’m afraid.” She pauses and holds both of Castiel’s hands, observing the marks side by side. Her face sours, just what Dean wants to see. “Oh, this is a cruel one.”

Great—just _great_. All at once, the breath leaves his lungs, and the worst settles into his brain. This is it—Castiel really is dying, and there’s no way he can bring him back, not this time. God and Amara are hands off, and no amount of prayer will convince them to resurrect an angel just because Dean wants them to. “Rowena, don’t make me beg.”

“I hate to rip the Band-aid off, dearie, but there’s no cure.”

Just like that—in those few words, Dean’s life might as well be over. All of the words left unsaid slip through his fingers, out of his grasp. The last words he ever heard Castiel speak were in a graveyard—and Dean might as well have buried him months ago, and he never said goodbye. “There’s gotta be something,” he croaks, burying his face in the cushions. He can’t look at her. If he tries, he might scream, or fight her, or break, like he’s always feared. “Some way to reverse it. Hell, call Crowley, he’d probably—”

“He knows nothing of this,” Rowena snaps, then corrects herself. “Fergus was never an angel. Neither was I, but I can read the tomes. I understand things ordinary witches could never even dream, and these runes, they’re meant to rot his body. They’ve contained his Grace so that by the time he freed himself, he wouldn't have a body to go back to.” She lowers her hand, petting through Dean’s hair. “The most I can do is break the runes. It might help if you let him touch you, just so he knows you’re there.”

“There’s nothing you can do?” Dean asks, brittle. He looks up, but not much higher than Castiel’s chest. Rowena must pity him, or else she wouldn't be here. There’s nothing for her to gain out of this, other than watching an angel die. _He can’t die_ , Dean thinks. His tears might as well be flames, burning trails down his face. “You can’t just—You can’t just sit there and let him die, he didn’t—”

“I don’t want him to die any more than you.” Kneeling, Rowena taps her nails to his cheeks. “But you have to face the fact that he might not survive. If you have any amends to make, I’d say them now while he can hear you.”

Rowena doesn’t waste time. Part of Dean is grateful, while the other half wishes she never answered him. Dean offers her his knife and watches her draw a sigil into each hand and foot, counteracting the marks engraved into his skin. The lines spark and close, leaving behind unblemished skin. Still, Castiel sleeps, never once making a sound, even after Rowena offers her condolences and leaves.

Hunger grips Dean’s stomach. Yet, he can’t fathom ever eating again, or doing anything other than holding Castiel’s hand in his own. Dean kisses his fingertips, his breath little more than a shudder. “You gotta come back to me,” he whispers, his words shattered. “You can’t leave me like this. I was—I was gonna come back to you. Me and Amara, we worked it out, and I was coming home. I was gonna tell you, and Sam said you were just… You disappeared. And I tried so hard to find you, I did everything I could.

“You've gotta believe me, man.” Dean shudders. An idea crosses his mind. Quickly, he jerks up his shirt sleeve and grabs Castiel’s wrist, pressing Castiel’s palm to the silvered mark branded into his shoulder. But nothing happens—that, more than anything, breaks Dean’s heart that last final inch. “Don’t do this to me. We had time, we had…”

 _Don’t make me lose you_ , his soul cries. Castiel doesn’t answer, and Dean bows his head, slumped into the couch. _I love you too much to watch you die._

-+-

The day passes without notice. Dean spends most of the daylight hours asleep, clinging to Castiel’s frigid hand while he slips away, second by second. His breaths grow shorter, and several times, Dean swears he stops altogether. Night begins to fall, and still, Dean sits there, Castiel’s hand in his own, his pulse weak and slowing, until all at once, it stops.

His stomach drops—and Castiel bolts upright with a gasp, a burst of bright blue coursing under his skin. Dean stumbles backward, a fleeting remnant of adrenaline surging and leaving him lightheaded. Castiel is alive—Castiel is _alive_.

Frantic, Castiel looks around the room, blue eyes finally landing on Dean. Rather than relief, panic flashes across his face. “Dean,” he croaks, his voice little more than a rasp. “Dean, how—”

“It’s okay,” Dean manages. He knees his way closer, hesitant in a way he hasn’t been years. Castiel attempts to touch him instead, but winces, his face pulled in agony. “Hey, hey, it’s okay—”

“What did you do to them?” Castiel asks, and—Dean doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t have an answer, other than _they were killing you, I didn't have a choice_. Tears flood Castiel’s eyes. Holding his wrist doesn’t ease his pain, nor does touching Castiel’s shoulder. “Dean, what did you do—”

Dean doesn’t reply. Instead, he pulls Castiel into his arms, and Castiel moves with him, his body wracked in tremors. He burns hot, so unlike just seconds before, Grace once again flooding his veins. But how is a question Dean refuses to have answered, so long as Castiel is breathing. “It’s okay,” he whispers to himself, above the sound of Castiel’s question, repeating on a loop until that’s all Dean knows. “It’s okay, Cas. It’s okay.”

-+-

Castiel refuses to speak to him.

Not that Dean expected any less, but it hurts all the same. The only two words he speaks, even hours after waking, is ‘thank you,’ after Dean offers him the only clean clothing he has left—his best suit, freshly dry cleaned and a size too small for Castiel. He only wears the button-down and the slacks, and perches on the couch in front of the bay window, looking out at the clearing.

In the quiet, Dean eats a single-serving box of stale Cheerios and fires off a text to Sam—that Castiel is alive, that as of right now, he doesn't need any backup. He leaves out that Rowena paid him a visit, and that Castiel probably hates him more than he ever has. But he can deal with that. So long as Castiel is alive, then he’s fine.

He’s _fine_ —only, the longer Castiel remains silent, the deeper Dean hurts, his heart aching every time he looks across the room.

Night falls, and Dean curls up on the same couch as before, a dusty pillow under his head. His stomach aches from hunger and whatever brand of torment Castiel is subjecting him to, and his stitches pull whenever he shifts. Not the worst night of his life, but it might as well be. _All I wanted was for you to be with me_ , he thinks, pinching his eyes shut. _I didn't want this_.

Minutes pass in silence, then hours. At some point, Dean wakes from a doze to find Castiel wandering, aimless, before he finds a new place to roost. Said place being the end of Dean’s couch, in the gap between the arm and Dean’s knees. The closest they’ve been in hours. Dean’s heart swells, just from proximity.

“I know why you did it,” Castiel mumbles, his eyes straight ahead. “And they’ll grow back. They always have, each time I’ve died. But you had no right—”

“You were dead,” Dean hisses. Sitting up, he winces, clamping a hand over his stomach. “I saw you up there. You didn’t have a pulse, and they were… Shit, man, they were hollow. I didn’t even have to push—”

“They would’ve recovered—”

“No, Cas.” Dean squeezes Castiel’s shoulder through thin fabric. “I can take you back there and show you. They weren’t even wings anymore, they were dead weight. And that’s the only way I could’ve gotten you out of there. I made the decision, and I knew you’d be pissed if you ever woke up.” He swallows, glancing away. “I thought you were dead.”

Castiel’s face falls even further, verging close enough to disappointment that Dean can barely stand to look at him. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” Castiel says, quiet. “I didn't want you to die. I wanted to go with you, but you were ready, and I had to let you go.” He closes his eyes and shrugs out of Dean’s hold. “I felt, that if you somehow survived, if I went back to face you, that it’d rip open the wound and I’d have to endure the pain all over again.”

For far too long, Dean watches him stand and pace the room, his steps sluggish, just as exhausted as Dean feels. There’s a bed upstairs, one he desperately wants to crawl into, but Castiel is his priority, even if Castiel doesn’t want to be here. “Amara took the bomb,” Dean says, lowering his head. “They just left, and said that this was the last straw. If we die, we die, and that’s it. No more resurrections, no more miracles, just us and the world. And I called you, but Sam said you’d taken off, and—”

He stops, nipping his thumbnail. “This ain’t how it was supposed to go, man. You can’t just—You always leave, and I have to pick up the pieces.”

“Because I’ve never felt at home here,” Castiel snaps. Dean recoils, resisting the urge to bite into a knuckle. “I don’t have a place here, Dean. At one point, I told myself that if we ever went our separate ways, that I would help people. That I would travel the country, because you taught me the value of humanity, that the world was more than motels and monsters. There’s beauty here, there’s things I’ve come to enjoy, and I can’t—” A pause. Castiel stands before the window, his hands clenched at his sides. “Forget it.”

“Forget it?” Dean parrots. On weak knees, he stands, wobbling. “Forget what? ‘Cause it sounds like you’re leaving out half the damn story.”

“It doesn’t concern you,” Castiel says, a flat out lie if Dean has ever heard one. “You severed my connection to my home, Dean. You took the one thing from me that made me an angel—”

“You wanna leave? Then fucking fine.” Anger fuels his movements more than adrenaline, more than anything. He knocks Castiel’s shoulder on the way to the stairs, teeth clenched, heart throbbing in his chest. Last contact—Castiel will probably leave as soon as he heads upstairs, and that’s fine. It’s _fine_. Pointing a finger, Dean grits out, “But don’t say I didn’t save you. Don’t you fucking say I never cared.”

Castiel calls out something that sounds like his name, but Dean ignores him. Ignores anything that isn’t the stairs under his feet. Upstairs, he stumbles his way into one of the few bedrooms and closes the door, refusing to touch the lock. Not yet. Because some part of him, some horribly sentimental part of him, wants Castiel to chase after him, to apologize, to… to _understand_. But nothing comes, and Dean crawls into the bed, throwing the sheets over his head.

He reeks of blood, of sweat and despair. The night around him remains quiet, aside from a lone owl in the clearing, guiding him to sleep with its call.

-+-

Morning comes much too early, dawn dyed in reds and golds through the gaps in the curtains. Given the chance, and Dean would sleep for the rest of the day, or for eternity, if it meant curing the ache in his bones, the gnawing pangs in his stomach. He’ll leave today, maybe. Sam is probably wondering what happened, and he has a seventeen hour drive ahead of him. Castiel won’t come home with him—Castiel is probably gone, and Dean fought to save him, all for nothing.

With aching hands, Dean sits up, stitches tugging. The room spins. He rubs his eyes until the bed no longer moves and stars pinprick his vision. _I shouldn’t’ve even bothered_ , he berates himself. No matter how hard he tries, his eyes continue to sting, and the agony of living finally catches up with him.

Castiel doesn’t care. Castiel may have saved his life in the past, but Dean did more—Dean made an unthinkable decision, and no amount of preparation could’ve even prepared him for what happened next. _I love him_ , he thinks, head in his hands. _And he let me push him away_.

Dean doesn’t cry, not very often. Not unless he can’t help it, when the world comes crashing down around him. Never, though, has he cried from pure heartache. And it hurts even worse, like someone ripped out his heart and burned it before his eyes. Grief runs deep, the infection left to fester, spreading to his organs. Castiel left, and he can’t even explain why, or how—

Someone touches his back—Dean jerks away, halfway to the gun that isn’t under his pillow. Not home—no, he’s still at the safehouse, and someone is sitting behind him, with the saddest eyes Dean has ever seen. “You asshole,” Dean hisses and punches Castiel’s shoulder, harder than he intended. It doesn’t help him feel any better. “You can’t just—”

“You never let me explain myself,” Castiel says. His hand falls away, too far for Dean to reach. “You ran.”

“Yeah, well, big fucking deal.” Stripping the sheets off, Dean staggers out of bed, blind in the dark. “That’s what I’m best at, leaving. Shouldn't you be gone too?”

“Dean.”

Dean stops, his hand an inch from the doorknob. Not because he wants to, but because of Castiel’s tone, the remorse in his voice. “Will you just… listen to me, please?”

Reluctantly, Dean drops his hand. He turns and leans against the wall, arms folded, caught up in how small Castiel looks sitting there, in Dean’s borrowed clothes, his coat nowhere to be found. “I tried to save you, Cas,” Dean says, to which Castiel nods. “You gotta believe me.”

“And you have to understand.” Castiel looks up at him, a plea in his eyes. “I don’t know when I disappeared. I don’t know what happened to me. All I remember is watching you walk away, and Sam and I driving home. I left while he was asleep, and after that…” He shakes his head, knuckles white where his fists the sheets. “I don’t know how long it’s been, Dean. I don’t know where I am, or what happened to me, and for the first time, I’m—I’m terrified. So forgive me if I’m upset, but I’m trying to come to terms with it.”

 _Shit_. Dean’s knees wait approximately three seconds before they give out, right in front of Castiel. Forehead to the mattress, he kneels, heart clenching when Castiel touches his hair. Tentative, soft—forgiving. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “But you started accusing me, and I—I was trying to save your life. I thought, if you lived, then it’d be okay, but…”

“I don’t want you to save me,” Castiel says. Before his anger can rise, Castiel eases it with his fingers, tipping Dean up by the chin. “I don’t want you to bear the responsibility of another life. I’m not yours to protect.”

“What if I wanted to?” Dean sucks in a breath, holding it until his lungs ache. “I couldn’t—I saw what you looked like. Someone tortured you and left you to die, and I couldn't—I wasn't gonna leave you there. After everything, that’s not how you deserve to go.”

“I deserve worse,” Castiel says.

His sincerity breaks Dean at his core. “You don’t.” Standing, Dean takes Castiel by the shoulder—then his neck, thumbs pressed over the notch of his throat. “Look at me, Cas. Look at me and tell me that you don’t deserve this.” _That you don’t deserve to be saved_ sits on his tongue.

For a brief second, Castiel does look at him, and Dean sees the pain in his eyes, written into every inch of his face. Touching his cheek, Castiel glances down, a vain attempt to pull away. “What I deserve is something that you can’t give me,” he says, so quiet that Dean almost misses it. “What I want is something that I can’t have.”

“What—” Dean starts, then drops his hands. He takes a step back, one, then two, until his back hits the wall. Last night’s words dance through his head, the meaning slowly piecing itself together, until Dean finally understands. What he’s wanted all along, and what he thought Castiel didn't feel in return. What Castiel wants is—“Why do you think you can’t have that?”

Castiel jerks his head up, lips parted. “You’ve given me every indication that I’m just your friend, Dean. I’m like a brother to you, someone you can confide in, but not this.”

“Cas.” Cautious, Dean touches Castiel’s cheek, knuckles tracing across warm skin. Kissing him comes naturally, despite the fear, the tremor in his hands. But Castiel doesn’t kiss him back—if anything, he sits there, still as the grave. Blue eyes glare at him as Dean pulls away, and somehow, his stomach manages to wring itself into an even tighter knot. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_.

“Don’t pity me,” Castiel says. His voice shakes, just the slightest bit agitated. “Don’t lie to me.”

This time, Dean is the one to watch him walk away. The taste of nothing lingers on his lips, the smell of cotton under his nose. Castiel’s absence leaves him cold, his chest hollow where once, love resided. Castiel is right—neither of them can have what they want, and all Dean can do is stand and watch him go.

-+-

It doesn’t hit him until later that Castiel is gone. Well and truly gone, out of sight and reach and everything in between. Standing on the porch, Dean leans against the railing like a widower waiting for her lover’s ghost. Only, Castiel isn’t anywhere to be seen. But if he fully intended to disappear, he would’ve taken the Impala, or made more noise than a few slamming doors.

In fact, Dean hears nothing other than the cicadas screeching, the first sound he’s heard in days that isn’t his own breathing. A light breeze rustles the pines, and on the far edge of the clearing, a doe stares at him, chewing intently.

None of it makes sense. Castiel has been upset before—upset with him, in particular—but he’s never left, not like this. Normally, Dean is the one who storms out, the one who uses his words as an act of violence. But Castiel is afraid, and won’t stick around to let Dean explain what happened and how—

 _What happened_.

Dean sprints off the porch and across the grass, in the direction of where it started. Branches crack under his boots and the cicadas continue to wail, somehow growing louder, fiercer. The barn comes into view, and Dean stomps through the remnants of a puddle, sending mud up the sides of his jeans. He ignores it—because the barn doors are open, and inside, he spots the vague outline of a man standing among the carnage.

He slows to a crawl at the sight, stopping in the doorway. There in the bloodied hay kneels Castiel, among the remnants of his wings, holding one of them in his hands. They look even worse now than they did earlier, the bones brown and hollow, black feathers turned green and fraying. Bugs skitters through the mass, attempting to scavenge any meat they can find.

Castiel sits there, running his hands through the feathers and brushing away the dirt and grime. Limbs that were once a part of him, but now lie dormant, rotting away in the shadows.

“It was demons,” Dean says between breaths. The room spins. He leans against the wall, waiting for the stars to disappear. “I got a call the other day, demanding that I pay your ransom. Said they’d had you stashed away down here and if I didn't show up, they’d kill you.” A pause. “It’s been four months, Cas. I’ve done everything I could to find you, and this was… It sounded solid. A lot better than any of the other bullshit I’ve looked into. Hell, they described you down to what color socks you were wearing.”

Castiel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move, even when Dean approaches him, coming to kneel beside what remains of a wing.

“They told me to go to a barn about five miles from here. Two of them, and you weren’t there.”

“They set you up,” Castiel says, low.

Dean nods. “They wanted me to find you dead,” he mutters. “Thought they’d get some reward, bringing two dead bodies to fucking… Crowley, like he’d care. ‘Cause they weren’t gonna stop with you, they came after me too.” He pulls up the hem of his shirt, exposing the wound to his stomach. His temple still aches if he thinks about it too hard. “They’re dead now, so.”

Castiel remains silent for a long minute, emotions warping his face, ranging from anger to disappointment, to acceptance and back again. At one point, he stands, brushing his hands off on his pants. Tears stain his face. Dean doesn’t mention it. The rope still hangs from the ceiling’s pitch, and the two crane hooks lie limp in the loft. Blood stains the hay beneath them, where for hours or even days, Castiel bled until there was nothing left in him to bleed.

“They’ll grow back,” Castiel says. Distant, like Dean is only hearing him after the fact. “It might take years, but even then, I’ll… I’ll never be able to fly again.”

Blinking, Dean looks up at him. “Why not?”

Anger again, then sadness. Castiel closes his eyes, lips turned into a scowl. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Pushing off the dirt, Dean walks to Castiel’s side, taking him by his bicep. “Cas, I’m not gonna apologize. I did what I could to save you, and I know damn well you’d do the same for me. You’ve yanked my ass out of the fire more times than I can count, and you never gave me the chance to talk you out of it. This was my turn.” A gentle squeeze. Castiel shakes his head. “What’s more important, your wings or your life?”

Soft, Castiel lets out a breath. His lashes come away wet as he opens his eyes. “When I fell years ago, I didn't have time to think about the loss. They were what defined me for so long, and then they vanished, and I was… I was happy, Dean. I finally had the chance to do anything I wanted on my terms, but things changed. I had to take on someone else’s Grace, and by the time I recovered my own, my wings were damaged beyond repair.” Gentle, Castiel touches Dean’s wrist, so much softer than Dean ever imagined. “Wings are what make us angels. Without them, what are we?”

“You’re you.” Dean lets him go, only to cradle Castiel’s cheek in his palm. Castiel shudders, turning into him. “I mean, wings are cool and all, but have you seen yourself behind the wheel of a car?” A quick smile flashes across Castiel’s face. Dean presses his thumb to the corner of Castiel’s lips. “Just ‘cause you can’t fly doesn’t mean anything. I can’t either, and I turned out fine.”

A grin, this time wider, yet pained at the edges. “When you look at me, you see a man. When I look at myself, I see a ghost of what I was. You should’ve seen them when we first met.” He leans in closer, a signal for Dean to hold him. And Dean does without question, drawing his arms around Castiel’s shoulders. Warm arms surround him, nails raking down the length of Dean’s spine. “They were beautiful. I could level buildings with a thought.”

“Sounds bitchin’,” Dean chuckles.

Resigned, Castiel sighs. “They were dead. They’ve been molting for years. I’m surprised they held me for that long.”

Dean pulls back, still pressed close, Castiel’s hands settled over his hips. Gentle, he thumbs away the wetness dotting Castiel’s eyelashes. “You still pissed?”

To his shock, Castiel shakes his head. “Where are we?”

 _Nowhere close to come_. “C’mon. I’ll tell you over lunch.”

-+-

Lunch comes in the for of all-you-can-eat pancakes at the only IHOP in a sixty-mile radius, smothered in strawberries and whip cream and more syrup than Dean can handle. Castiel fiddles with Dean’s phone the entire time, barely interested in the plate of eggs and sausage Dean ordered him. Dean picks off it to drown out the sweetness.

For the first time in days, he can _feel_ something other than gnawing hunger and chills. Gradually, his body warms, and his senses flood back in. Sure, the last few times he went without food, he survived relatively unscathed, but never before has he had to drag a body half a mile purely on adrenaline alone. In the past, the reward was always something out of the first vending machine he found, or something swiped under his jacket from a curb store.

With the last twenty in his pocket, he buys lunch and eats until the hunger fades and the need to pop the top button of his jeans takes over. “Can’t believe they dragged you all the way to Georgia,” Dean says after a while, chewing on the end of a straw. “You know how far that is from home?”

“Two days,” Castiel says. He leans back in his seat, holding Dean’s phone in his lap. “Maybe one, if you didn't sleep.”

“Too old to make that drive in a day anymore,” Dean mutters. Propping up his chin, he looks over at Castiel, noting the blue light dying his eyes. “Find something?”

“No.” Castiel places the phone on the table, afterward shuttering the screen. “I was looking through your photos.”

Dean flushes—not from the incredible lack of incriminating photos, but because Castiel finds his life interesting enough to look through everything he’s taken a picture of over the last few months. Mostly sunrises, interspersed with pictures of bodies and documents. At some point, he started photographing motel rooms for the fun of it. Hopefully Castiel didn't find all of the pictures Dean snuck of him over the past few years—hopefully.

“Boring stuff,” Dean deflects and plucks an ice cube from his glass. “What’ve you got on yours?”

Castiel smiles, soft, verging on sad. “It was in my coat,” he says, looking down. “I don’t exactly remember what I had stored. I’m not adept at photography.”

“Not all of us are.” Under the table, Dean nudges his foot. “We’ll get you a new coat, if you want. Last one wasn't exactly you, anyway.”

The look Castiel gives him could frighten a toddler, or an unprepared cat. Dean laughs, nearly spitting ice across the table. “It wasn’t bad.”

“No, it was bad,” Dean says with a grin. “It didn't fit, for one. Look, when we get back, I’ll take you shopping. Designer, from Walmart, whatever you want, we’re gonna find you something.”

Castiel smiles and ducks his head. Dean barely makes out the hint of a flush highlighting his cheeks, dying the tips of his ears red. “I think I want something more fitting,” he says, and—Dean can work with that. As long as Castiel’s sudden preference isn’t skintight leather, then he can maybe get by without being uncomfortably hard just looking at him. “I need new clothing as well.”

Dean pops another ice cube into his mouth, tucking it into his cheek. “When we get back to the house, I’ll do laundry and find you something that’s not so… tight.” He waves to Castiel’s suit and the buttons threatening to pop off and ping their way across the restaurant. Since when did he bulk up? “Place is big enough, it’s gotta have a washer somewhere.”

The waitress comes by with their bill, and Dean leaves the entire twenty on the table on their way out. A procession of cars crawls into the parking lot, the noise of slamming doors and chatter inherently setting his teeth on edge. Too many people for one space. “Looks like we got out of there in time,” Dean says, and Castiel nods, avoiding a group of children piling out of the backseat of an Expedition. “What d’you think, wedding?”

“Birthday party,” Castiel says, fighting off a shudder. That explains the balloons and shouting parents. “Though, I’m sure there’s better restaurants in town for that.”

“Guess they couldn't find a Chuck E. Cheese,” Dean huffs.

The Impala’s keys burn a hole in his pocket. They should get in and head back to the safe house, but Castiel refuses to walk, and Dean doesn’t want to leave his orbit even for a second. Dean opens his mouth—but Castiel speaks first, shamefaced. “I should apologize,” he mutters. “You were only doing what you thought was best, and you didn't anticipate my survival. You’re right, if it meant that you had a chance to live, I would’ve done the same thing.”

Briefly, Dean looks around to see if anyone in the nearby motel parking lot or strip mall is looking. He takes Castiel by the shoulder, then slides down, cupping his elbow. “You don’t gotta say anything,” he says. “I’m just glad you’re here. Even if you just sat there and watched me eat five stacks of pancakes.”

“I fear for your stomach,” Castiel says. Dean stifles a laugh. “If it’s any consolation… Thank you, for staying with me. If anything, I’m glad I got to see you again.”

 _Yeah_ , Dean thinks, tugging Castiel into an embrace. _Glad I got to see you, too._

-+-

The laundry room turns out to be in the basement, through the door Dean refused to step into the night before. An older Kenmore washer and dryer sit up against the wall, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of gardening equipment and suspiciously sharp knives hanging from hooks. Definitely newer than what he’s used to at the Bunker, but it works, and Dean will take what he can get after two weeks of being on the road.

Which, incidentally, leaves him naked save for a towel around his waist while Castiel sits at the workbench, staring blankly across the room.

“Where are we?” Castiel asks, finally blinking after what feels like ages.

Dean looks up from the magazine in his lap, reluctantly tearing his eyes away from Mr. April 1997. “This is one of Bobby’s old safehouses,” he says. “Never really mentioned that, huh?”

“I figured as much.” Castiel looks up to the ceiling, his brow pinched. “It explains the library upstairs, and why there’s a scimitar on the wall.”

“Really?” Dean scans the room and finds it hanging next to a machete, its blade broken in half and probably riddled with tetanus. _Damn_. “He bought it ‘cause no one really hunts this far south. Technically,” he stops to laugh, “my name’s on the deed.”

Low, Castiel hums. A spark of something lights his eyes. Dean hates that look—hates to know what he’s planning. “So you own this house?”

“And twelve acres,” Dean says, wary. “There’s a lake down—What are you thinking?”

A shrug, nonchalant, like Castiel isn’t scheming. “It’d be a shame if we never went back to Kansas,” he says. Dean’s heart swells in his chest. “Maybe once or twice, to pack our things.”

Dean blinks. “You sayin’ you wanna move out?”

“I’m saying that we can’t live underground for the rest of our lives.” Castiel looks over to the stairwell, then to the small string of windows at the very top of the wall, overgrown with weeds on the other side. “I’ve been thinking about it for the better part of a year, about what life would be like if we didn't have the world bearing down on our backs, if monsters weren’t out to murder us in our sleep. If we could do anything we wanted, where would we go?”

 _Not Georgia_ , Dean thinks, but lying to himself will get him nowhere. He misses the sun, misses talking to people that aren’t grieving, misses eating at actual restaurants where grease isn’t a non-negotiable side. As far as he can tell, the next largest town is twenty-five minutes away, and they’re only an hour from Atlanta. Compared to Lebanon, this might as well be heaven, with a grocery store close enough that his perishables won’t thaw by the time he gets home.

It could work. Desperately, he wants it to work, but logistics are a nightmare at best, and convincing Sam to pack up and leave is another hurdle.

The washing machine buzzes, cutting off Dean’s attempt at a reply. Hopping off his stool, he wanders over and starts pulling his wet clothes from the basin and tosses them into the dryer, all while Castiel talks.

“It’s an option,” Castiel says, close to backtracking. “I know you’re fond of it—”

“No, that’s…” Dean places his hands on the lip of the dryer, tapping his fingers against the metal. “Look. It’s convenient, right? Most of our cases are in that area, and we save time on travel. If we moved here, it’d be two day drives wherever we go—”

“But do you enjoy it?” Castiel reaches over and takes Dean’s abandoned magazine, flipping through the pages, like he’s reading Cosmo instead of the hottest hunks of the nineties. Dean flushes just watching him. “I know you, Dean. I know it’s the first home you’ve ever had that’s felt like your own space, but is convenience worth more than your mental health?” Setting it aside, Castiel joins him, hip cocked against the washing machine. Hesitant, he brushes his fingers down the line of Dean’s jaw, the first touch he’s willingly given since this morning. “There’s nothing left to fight. Don’t you think you’ve earned this?”

 _No_. There’s still monsters left, and people are still dying—but selfish as it is, Dean wants to wake up with the sun in his eyes and a warm body close by, wants to sit on his porch in the summer or relax by the lake. Wants to teach Castiel how to fish, just to see if he likes it. And none of those things are available in Kansas without making the effort.

Sighing, Dean turns into Castiel’s palm, reveling in his warmth, a touch he never thought he’d have again. “Haven’t even really checked it out,” he says with a quiet laugh. “I own this place and I’ve never even looked at it.”

“Then walk with me.” Castiel curls his fingers behind Dean’s ear. “You have an hour to spare.”

Right, his clothes. Acutely, Dean remembers that beneath the towel, he’s technically naked, and Castiel is standing within kissing distance. And Dean wants to kiss him, if Castiel would let him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

A smile. “We’re survived. I think I’m allowed this one thing.”

 _Yeah_ , Dean thinks. Leaning in, he kisses the corner of Castiel’s lips, his heart threatening to break free from his chest—and this time, Castiel kisses him back, just a chaste press of lips against his own. Tears spring to his eyes anyway, spilling when he goes in for a second, then a third. Fingers thread through his hair, light, tentative. “Can’t believe you’re gonna make me walk around naked.”

“You have a towel,” Castiel hums into another kiss. “You could walk without it.”

Damn— _Damn_. “At least ask me to dinner first, man.”

-+-

From their walk in and around the property, the house has three bedrooms upstairs, one with an en-suite bathroom and the other two splitting a jack-and-jill bath on the other side. Downstairs is the library, with its extensive collection of half-empty bookcases and wood-paneled walls, and a den on the far end, filled with dusty dining chairs and a table that hasn't been polished in a decade. The kitchen is fairly modern compared to the Bunker, with its updated appliances and stainless-steel sink, and granite countertops on every surface, even the island.

It needs work in some places, but nothing major. Maybe new wallpaper or paint in some spots, but it works. And Dean already has the keys in hand—all they need is to move in.

As soon as the dryer finishes, Dean shrugs on the first pair of jeans he can and a shirt. The rest, he folds and shoves into his duffel, carrying them upstairs where Castiel waits in the library. “It’ll take a week,” Dean says, setting his bag by an empty wingback couch, across from where Castiel lies, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed. Sleeping, Dean would say, if it wasn't for the methodical rap of Castiel’s fingers over his stomach. “Gotta get up there and back, and we’re gonna have to convince Sam.”

“I don't think it’d take much convincing,” Castiel says. Turning his head, he opens one eye. “Have you talked to him?”

Dean plops down into the opposite couch. Dust wafts up, tickling his sinuses. “I texted him yesterday and said you were awake. Haven’t really had the chance to mention anything about…” He motions to the room. “All this.”

Castiel takes a moment to muster up the strength—or want, more likely—to stand. Bare feet pad across the hardwoods, coming to a stop inches from Dean. “It’s a big decision to leave somewhere that you call home,” he says, taking Dean by the wrist. Dean looks down, forehead touching Castiel’s. “I don’t mean to sound like I’m talking you into it.”

“No, it’s…” He lets out a breath, softening his shoulders. “Not gonna lie, I’ve thought about it a lot. Just didn’t think it’s something you’d want.”

“I think,” Castiel says, curling his fingers into Dean’s palms, “that we’ve been given a second chance. Amara and God reconciled and gave you the chance to live out the rest of your days, and you took the opportunity to save me, even though I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Hey.” With a look, Dean attracts Castiel’s attention, keeping his eyes on him. “I wasn’t gonna let you die there, okay? I care about your sorry ass too much to leave you.”

A flush rises high on Castiel’s cheeks, barely visible in the shadow between them. “My point is, I’d like to start over, by your side, for whatever time you have remaining. And I’d hate to spend that time living underground with the dust motes and the rat in the walls that I can’t find.”

“God, you hear it too?” Dean hides his laugh in Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing his hands tight. “Thought I was going crazy.”

“Sam wants to smoke it out, but I talked him out of it,” Castiel chuckles. Silence grows between them, only broken by their breaths. “Like you said, the house is in your name.”

Firm, Dean nods. “First time I’m gonna get to pack my stuff in boxes. Hell, I’ve never had stuff before, what am I supposed to do with it?”

“You could display it,” Castiel hums. Eyes half-lidded, he sidles closer, incredibly warm where they touch. “The bedroom facing the front porch would be perfect.”

Secretly, Dean likes that room the best. Large and spacious, with a king-sized bed and a large dormer window, and more than enough wall space to put up shelves or bookcases, or mount a TV—everything he could ever want, all in his grasp. He can see it now, can see summer and autumn spent here, either on the porch or in bed, preferably with Castiel within arm’s reach. Plus, winters that don’t involve shoveling snow just to make it out of the garage.

With all of his heart, Dean wants this, now that he can have it. “Okay,” he says, sneaking in a kiss. “Let’s go.”

-+-

Dean doesn’t tell Sam, not until they’re face to face. Mostly, he texts every few hours to tell him something they might need in the kitchen, or Castiel steals his phone to hold lengthy conversations that—probably—have nothing to do with him. But for the most part, they drive in silence, comfortable enough to barely speak except if they find something interesting on the side of the road or if someone needs a break.

Neither of them mention Castiel’s wings, and Dean refuses to ever tell another soul.

They pull into Lebanon around six in the evening a day after, Dean road-worn and back aching, Castiel looking halfway to falling asleep in the passenger seat. Almost thirty-eight years old, and the more miles he puts behind him, the more he wonders if it’s worth it, in the end. If the people they save outweighs the bodies left behind, if the sweat and scars are worth the time it takes to heal. His best years are behind him—the rest of his life, he has no clue what to do with.

Sam meets them in the library. Or, rather, Dean happens upon him, with his head resting in the pillow of his arms while he snores. He could do something like sneak up behind him or drop a book, but it wasn't funny the first few times Sam did it to him, and Dean is trying desperately to be a better person.

He has Castiel back—that’s a start.

Castiel breaks the silence inevitably, pulling out a chair as quietly as he can. Not quiet enough. Sam jerks upright, hair in his eyes and drool on his chin. “Christ,” he mutters and palms his face. Dark circles color his eyes. “Thought you said it’d be midnight.”

“We got an early start,” Dean says through a yawn. He settles into the chair at Castiel’s side, succumbing to the urge to lay his head down on the cool wood. His bag, he drops at his side, forgotten. “Cas didn't wanna wait.”

“I offered to drive,” Castiel says. He stretches, wincing when his spine pops. “Dean was insistent.”

“Normally is,” Sam says. He offers Castiel a smile, probably willing down the hug Dean knows he wants to give. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again, Cas.”

Nodding, Castiel slumps in his chair. “I found myself in a predicament,” he explains. Dean, meanwhile, hides his face in his arms and wonders how much of the story he’ll flub. “I originally intended to drive until I found my way home, but I was intercepted by demons. They were attempting to sell an angel for a profit, but Dean found me first.”

Apparently, all of it.

And to Dean’s shock, Sam believes him without question. “Didn’t think they’d stoop that low.”

“Guess they’ve still got a few tricks up their sleeves,” Dean mumbles. The topic at hand sits on his tongue, festering, yet he can’t manage to find the words, his brain too addled by driving for more than twelve hours at a time. He could bring it up tomorrow, but Castiel’s words echo in his head, urging him forward. “D’you wanna move?”

For a long minute—or hours, maybe—Sam remains silent. Too quiet, in fact. Lifting his head, Dean makes sure that he’s actually in the room, only to find Sam gawking at him, his confusion practically sentient. “You—You were gone an entire week. I thought you were looking for Cas, not house hunting—”

“I wasn’t house hunting,” Dean groans. He needs coffee—or a brick to the head. “Look, you remember that book at Bobby’s, the one with all the safe houses on it?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers, visibly wary. “I’ve got it in my room, why?”

“’Cause my name’s on one of them.” Sitting up, Dean attempts to straighten his spine, anything to not look Sam in the eye. “And I found Cas a few miles from there”—more like a hundred feet, but same difference—“and it’s nice. I mean, really nice, with windows and everything. All we’d have to do is pack up and go, and it’s there. No strings attached.”

Sam leans his elbows on the table, fingertips pressed to the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not gonna say I don’t want to, ‘cause I do,” he sighs. “But you could’ve told me about this yesterday. I could’ve been packing.”

Packing— _Sam wants to leave, too_.

“In Dean’s defense, he didn’t know how you would react,” Castiel says.

“Hey.” Weak, Dean jabs him in the shoulder. “I just—wasn’t sure, alright? I mean, this place is great, but it’s not…”

“A home,” Sam says.

And that’s it. The bunker may be their house, but it’s not a home. It’s not a place Dean wants to spend the rest of his life. What Dean wants is the sun on his face and a porch swing to nap in on hot summer days. He had it once, years ago, and he knows Sam tried—and now, they can, with Castiel at their sides.

Under the table, Castiel palms his thigh, just out of sight. All the contact Dean needs to keep him sane, to keep him moving. “Sure this is something you wanna do?”

Sam nods and rubs his eyes. “Might take a while,” he sighs. As much as Dean hates to hear it, Sam is right. “Gotta see what we can sell first. We’re gonna have to pay the electric bill.”

“Fuck,” Dean wheezes through a laugh. “Maybe we should just buy one of those huts in the desert, live off gray water and the sun.”

Sam grimaces, as much as he can given the hour. “Think I’ll take the bills instead.” Pushing his chair back, Sam closes his book and stands. “Talk about it in the morning?”

“Good deal,” Dean says. With a wave, he wishes Sam goodnight and watches him disappear around the corner.

All that remains in his absence is silence, and Castiel making his way to his feet, chair legs scraping across the tile. His hands settle atop Dean’s shoulders, thumbs kneading into his nape. Nice—amazing, even, and if he doesn't move now, he might fall asleep just from Castiel giving him a halfhearted massage. “You gonna go to your room?” he asks, managing to tilt his head up to see Castiel looking down at him.

Unfortunately, Castiel nods. “I’ll give you your space for the night. There’s… things I still have to work through, Dean, and I’m not—”

“Yeah, I get it.” Really, Dean does. Castiel just experienced a traumatic event, and as much as Dean wants to hold him, Castiel needs his privacy, needs a space to grieve that isn’t bogged down in nearly forty years of touch starvation and daddy issues. One day, he’ll ask Castiel to share his bed—until then, he’ll wait. “What car do you want from the garage?”

A spark of hope lights Castiel’s eyes. Dean already knows his answer. “I’ll tell you on the morning we leave.”

-+-

Their final morning in the bunker is almost a month later. A month too late, in Dean’s opinion. September rolled into October while they waited, the leaves already turned vibrantly red and fallen, scattering like dust in the wind.

Most of what was in the Bunker when they first moved in, they leave behind, save for a good portion of older tomes from the library, along with spell books and anything else they wouldn't want falling into the hands of strangers. Sam handed over the spare set of keys to Jody last week, and Dean sold off all of the motor pool—reluctantly—save for the behemoth Castiel stands before today.

A jet black 1934 Ford Sedan, with whitewall tires, leather seats and suicide doors, and more than enough room for two grown men in the backseat. Not that Dean would know. He has fantasies, though, and one of them has Castiel pinning him into the bench and kissing him senseless. Out of all the other cars Castiel could have picked, he gravitated toward that one and refused to let Dean even near it unless he promised he wouldn't put her up for auction.

Dean kept the motorcycles, though—two 1950 Indian Chief Black Hawks, one in cherry red and the other midnight blue. For Sunday drives, or so he says—when they don’t have any place to be and can afford to spend the time riding just for the hell of it.

All of their cash, Castiel keeps in a storage trunk in the back of their U-Haul van, hidden under boxes and behind Dean’s mattress. Most of their belongings fit into ten large boxes, filled with books and clothes and weapons, and anything they can’t bear to part with. Dean takes his stereo system, and Sam takes apart and stacks several of the shelves in the storage rooms, supposedly for the basement. The rest, anyone with the key can take.

With the motorcycles on the hauler behind the van, they leave—Sam leading the way with Dean trailing and Castiel in his rearview.

Dean spares one last glance as they leave Lebanon, their place for too few years, and looks ahead, in the direction of their future.

 _Home_.


	2. Found

Not once in his life has Dean ever had a place he could call a home. So far as he was concerned, Baby was the only home he had, and the string of motels he left in the rearview. Lisa was close, the Bunker even closer—but this, this is heaven incarnate.

Because for the first time in his life, Dean Winchester wakes in his own home to the sound of cicadas in the trees and the wind wafting in through the curtains, without a weight bearing down on his shoulders. Sure, he has boxes to unpack and furniture to arrange, and someone needs to go grocery shopping, but that can wait for another hour or two.

Arms stretched above his head, Dean bites back a groan. Faintly, he can see the beginnings of the sun rising through the pines. The air feels different here, compared to Kansas. Road salt still stains the Impala’s side panels from the snow they left behind. Here, the sky is clear, and faintly, Dean can smell rain in the air, probably moving in by late afternoon or the evening. All things he had only ever experienced at motels, when the weather decided how hard they would drive that day. Now, he has nowhere to go, no place he immediately has to be.

And it’s terrifying. Part of him expects the other shoe to drop, for Chuck to come back and yank it all away from him, but nothing happens. A frog croaks, something meows outside, and a bag shakes—

 _That fucking cat_.

Objectively, Dean knows that Castiel was feeding a stray back in Lebanon. Multiple times over the last month, he noticed faint white and black hairs peppering Castiel’s clothes whenever he wrestled them away from him long enough to wash them, too short to be from a human. He caught Castiel once, out of the corner of his eye, feeding the creature, scooping whatever kibble he bought that week into one of the kitchen’s good bowls. But he never saw the cat—just knew that it existed, and that Castiel has a soft spot for it, even if he never let it inside.

But during his initial visit, he never noticed a cat. Meaning, Castiel brought it with him, and is feeding it on the porch like no one would ever notice. And somehow, he was either smart enough to keep Dean off his trail, or Dean was stupid enough to not notice. Either way, Castiel has a cat.

Rolling over, Dean slides out of bed and takes half of the sheets with him. The chill in the air nips his skin, and belatedly, Dean wishes his socks weren’t in a box with his robe and the rest of his clothing. Half-awake, he shrugs on yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt and stumbles down the stairs, aware of every creak and groan from the floorboards. Through the windows, Dean makes out the shape of Castiel’s back, but nothing else.

And outside, Dean finds Castiel feeding a black-and-white kitten, maybe a year old at the most, with bright orange eyes and a tail longer than its body. She _howls_ the moment she sees Dean, scampering across the porch on her hind legs, front paws raised—then launches, latching onto Dean’s pant leg and crawling up.

“No, no,” Castiel scolds all too softly and plucks her free before she makes to his shirt. “He’s not a tree.”

“Probably look like one.” Dean shakes his head. Castiel holds the kitten in his arms, despite her squirming and chirping as she bites the collar of his brand-new coat. Slow, Dean traces his knuckle down her spine, and she settles, flipping her head up to look at him. “What’s your name?”

“I’ve named her Sonia,” Castiel murmurs, scratching one of her ears. “Someone left a box on our doorstep with her and a few toys in it. I didn’t know how you’d react, so I kept her in the garage.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. That explains the white hairs in the front seat, then. “You could’ve said something.” He takes Sonia into his arms, watching as she nestles her head into the crook of his elbow. “What were you gonna do, leave her outside?”

Castiel shrugs. “I would’ve come up with something. I couldn't leave her, though. You saw the forecasts before we left, she wouldn’t have survived if I—”

“I know, I know,” Dean shushes. He never figured Castiel would get suckered by an animal, but apparently even angels can have their hearts twisted. “Look, when we go into town today, we’ll go by the pet store. Don’t want her scratching up the furniture.”

Castiel’s eyes grow wide, reminiscent of a child waking on Christmas morning to find a puppy under their tree. Except, Castiel found a cat, and Dean might as well be a sad excuse for foliage. “Thank you,” he says, visibly willing down his enthusiasm. Taking her back, Castiel cradles Sonia in his arms. She yawns, her mouth full of needle-sharp teeth that could probably puncture Dean’s throat in the middle of the night. “How did you sleep?”

 _Amazing_. “Great,” Dean says. He rubs the back of his neck, looking down at the wooden slats under his bare feet. “Don’t think I woke up once.”

Soft, Castiel smiles. “That’s good. I know you value your time.”

“Yeah.” Dean chuckles, hiding the flush heating his cheeks. “Offer’s still open, if you’d wanna…” _Move in with me_ , he wants to say. “Just saying. Know you got your own room and all, but my bed’s pretty big.” Definitely better than the bed Castiel brought with him. Sure, the mattresses at the Bunker are utilitarian and free, but the first time Dean ever laid on one, he vowed never again.

Tilting his head up by his chin, Castiel leaves a kiss to the corner of his lips. “Give me time,” he says. Between them, Sonia thrashes and sinks her claws into the front of Dean’s shirt, dangerously close to a nipple. “This isn’t me turning you down, Dean.”

“I know.” Dean sighs through his nose. “Just… not exactly good at this whole dating thing. If that’s even what you’d call… this.” He waves a hand between them, only to feel Sonia sink a claw into the pad of his middle finger.

Blood wells. She refuses to let go, not until Castiel pries her loose and presses his finger to the middle of her paw, exposing her claws. Dean, meanwhile, wipes his hand on his pants, pinching denim between his fingertips. “I don’t think we’re dating,” Castiel says, his eyes distant as he chooses his words. “We’ve been through much together, and we’re dedicated to one another. I rescued you from Hell, you rescued me from death. Time and time again,” he slips his hand beneath Dean’s shirt sleeve, fitting his hand over the silvered brand, “we’ve always been here.”

Dean touches Castiel’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “You make it sound like we’re married.” He shakes his head, avoiding Castiel’s smile and Sonia’s incessant meows. “Don’t remember ever hitting up a chapel.”

“Marriage is a solemn vow.” Castiel steps closer, drawing Dean into a kiss. “It’s a commitment, to devote yourself to the one you love, to be with them through the triumphs and hardships. I feel after all we’ve been through, we might as well be.”

Tears form in the corners of Dean’s eyes, kept at bay—mostly, because somewhere in the house, the floorboards creak, heading toward the stairs. Sam doesn’t need to see him cry, and he would prefer it if Castiel stopped being the one to _make_ him. “Your little mutt have all her shots?”

“Her previous owner left her papers in her box,” Castiel affirms, bringing Sonia up to kiss her nose. Sonia sneezes directly into his face, much to Castiel’s annoyance and Dean’s utter delight. “She shouldn’t give you rabies.”

“Good.” Reluctant, Dean pulls Castiel’s hand away, but not before sneaking in a kiss to his knuckles. “You gonna show her inside, or are you gonna leave her in the yard?”

Castiel’s face brightens. Sonia launches out of his arms, clawing her way up to Dean’s shoulder. First on their list of places to go today—the pet store, for a tree.

-+-

It takes Dean the better part of the afternoon to finish unpacking. His record player—a large cabinet, with a combination radio and turntable—sits along the wall, with enough storage space in the front cabinet for his vinyl collection. His weapons sit in a brand-new bookshelf rather than looming over his head while he sleeps, along with his paperbacks and the family portraits he’s kept over the years. Across the dormer window, he hangs curtains, both to keep out the light but to also create a sitting area for when the sun isn’t blaring straight in through the window.

Across the hall, his listens to Sam putter around in his room, listening to the local soft rock station on one of the bunker’s old radios. Occasionally, he hears a tinkle from Castiel’s bedroom a few feet away, and Sonia’s maniacal chirping while he attempts to make his bed. Sometimes, she sprints between the rooms, bouncing off any and every piece of furniture she can find.

She needs a friend—or a nap.

Sam ventures in after a while, hair pulled out of his face with barrettes and dressed in loose sweats. Only a full day here, and he already looks comfortable, more at ease than he ever did at the Bunker. Maybe Castiel was right—maybe this is what they needed after all. “Did you know we have a pool?”

A pool? Sitting up, Dean ignores the twinge in his spine and how the mattress sinks around his hands. So much for relaxing. But if they have a pool—“Where?”

Sam leads him into his room—still as sparsely decorated as the Bunker, but with more life to it, with empty shelves and a television propped up on top of the dresser—and over to one of his two windows. Down below in the backyard sits a peanut-shaped pool, verging on green and swamped with pinecones and other debris. The concrete around the edges hasn’t been swept in ages, and at some point, the tarp over the cabana blew off, or rotted away.

“Holy shit,” Dean says, and Sam laughs. “How did I miss that?”

“Well, you slept all night, and we spent all day at Walmart,” Sam says. “Have you seen anything here that I haven’t?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. Thinking about it twists his stomach, even a month after the fact. The wings are probably still rotting there, if nature hasn’t completely broken them down by now. “There’s a barn,” he says, jamming his finger in the odd direction of the forest. “But it’s pretty much totaled. A tree fell through it.”

“The ledger said something about a lake,” Sam adds. He abandons the window and searches through one of his boxes, filled to the brim with books. After a minute, he comes back with a black Moleskine notebook, the leather well-worn and the elastic torn off. Flipping through the pages, he settles on one and says, “two story barn, a lake between this property and the neighboring land, a storm cellar twenty steps from the front door”—which, Dean doesn’t understand at all—“and a storage shed with two lawnmowers and a large tractor.”

Dean lifts a brow. Not that they need a tractor for anything, but maybe it could help knock down the barn if he ever got the chance. “What’re the chances the cellar’s haunted?”

Sam shrugs. “Might as well check it out?”

They probably should, along with whatever else the notebook says. Before they leave, Dean calls for Castiel to join them, and Castiel walks with Sonia at his heels, clamoring across the hardwoods with the grace of a drunken tap dancer. As much as she probably wants to, Dean doesn’t let her leave and closes the screen door, allowing her to watch them and scream at her leisure.

He follows Sam, watching him count his steps as they walk in a vertical line across the yard. Once Sam counts to twenty, they stop, finding only grass and dirt. “Maybe it’s buried,” Castiel says, which would make sense. So far as Dean can remember, the last person to actually live here was Bobby twenty years ago. The yard certainly looks like it, with grass nearly thigh high and flowering.

Lip between his teeth, Sam stomps. Once, resulting in a dull thud—twice, a hollow twang and a surge of dirt into the air. “Good call,” he says. Kneeling, Sam begins to dig with his hands, and Dean joins in, ripping away clumps of grass and throwing them in odd directions, until they find the latch.

At some point, someone forgot to lock the padlock. Lucky on their part—but also terrifying. “There’s gotta be rats in there,” Dean complains, wiping his hands on his pants. “Or raccoons, or a body. I mean, who just leaves a door unlocked?”

“People who don’t expect anyone to find it,” Castiel mentions, which, true. Bending over, he grabs the latch and yanks it up, ripping apart roots and sending dirt into the hole.

Even in the daylight, Dean can’t see much below other than a set of stairs and empty iron shelves. Castiel takes the initiative and descends—or, hops, rather, landing on his feet. Dust wafts up around him. Dean’s sinuses regret ever agreeing to this.

To his surprise—and disappointment—there’s barely anything. Not even a can of food on the shelves or a mason jar full of screws. Instead, Dean finds a large storage container in the corner, and Castiel finds—a sword. An impressive one, in fact, with a blade about four feet long and constructed of pure silver. No worn spots on the handle, no suspicious stains on the blade. Castiel wields it, holding it up to the sunlight, and a brilliantly blue light erupts, burning like fire. Castiel’s eyes glow, illuminating the dark.

“Okay, angel sword,” Dean says as the fire dies down. Sam rushes over to Castiel to inspect it, practically begging him to hand it over. “How’s that our luck?”

“I suspect they thought it was useless,” Castiel says. Entirely too unwillingly, he hands it over, his eyes never leaving Sam’s hands. “Seraphim wielded it in the first war against Hell.”

“We could always keep it somewhere, like a safe,” Sam suggests. While probably a great idea, horror flashes across Castiel’s face. “Not that I think we’re gonna need it, but—”

“I’ll keep it,” Castiel says in haste. Sam hands it over with a pout, and Castiel holds it at his side, a newfound determination on his face.

 _Whatever that means_.

The only thing left to take from the cellar is the chest, which apparently weighs close to a hundred pounds. Somehow, Dean and Sam manage to haul it up the ladder and to solid ground, Dean doing most of the heavy lifting despite the twinge in his back. Castiel follows behind as they carry it across the yard and up the two steps to the porch. Sonia wails and claws at the screen, climbing halfway up before they can even get the door open.

“Think you adopted a monkey,” Dean grunts and backs his way inside with Sam.

Castiel pries Sonia off the door and follows them into the living room, with its wingback couches and the echoes of Castiel’s dying breaths. Part of him wonders if he’ll ever forget what happened here, forget that for the better part of a day, he held Castiel’s hand and felt him take his last breath. New memories can’t replace tragedy—but over time, Dean hopes they’ll at least try.

Dean sets the box down in the middle of the room, atop a rug that probably hasn’t been vacuumed in a decade. Dust wafts up the second it touches the ground. Tomorrow, Dean plans to clean the entire house, if it means he can stop holding back sneezes at every turn.

“What if it’s gold?” Sam asks, kneeling. “I mean, what if Bobby was hiding something and he never told us?”

“Because it’s probably ammunition,” Dean grunts. He sits, groaning on the way down. Sonia, escaping Castiel’s clutches, claws her way up Dean’s shirt to perch on his shoulder. Her scratching post sits in the box in the library, all too far away. “Seriously. Probably just kept it down there in case a whole herd of vamps raided the place. Hey, Cas.” Dean looks over his shoulder, only to find Sonia staring into his ear. “You got any guesses?”

Castiel sets his sword down atop one of the couches, the one probably still stained with his blood in places. “I have no opinion,” he says and joins them, crossing his feet under his legs. “Unless it’s a bomb, then I have several.”

Sam laughs and shakes his head. “Doubt it’s a bomb. C’mon.”

Together, he and Sam yank open the joined flaps to reveal—boxes. Multiple small boxes with nearly illegible writing on the sides. Underneath, Dean finds leather bound books about an inch thick, each with dates and types of coinage. “Dude,” he says, yanking one of the boxes open. Inside are several two-by-two cardboard squares surrounding vintage quarters and nickels. “Jackpot.”

“What?” Sam reaches over and shoves his entire hand inside of the box. “Money?”

“Someone was a numismatist,” Castiel mentions and takes one book seemingly at random, the spine reading Morgan Silver Dollars 1878-1891. “But why here?”

“Oh, I think I got it.” Sam pinches his brow, facing the ceiling. “One of Garth’s buddies used to be really into this kinda stuff. Probably stashed it here and forgot about it.”

“Well, finders keepers.” Dean hands Sam the box and continues rifling through, ignoring Sonia’s teeth nipping his scalp as she cleans his hair. “You think he’s got anything we can sell?”

“I don’t think I’d advise it,” Castiel says with the slightest bit of humor. “Most collections are only worth what someone will pay. This, though,” he holds out the book to Dean, a finger resting over a coin marked _1893 O_ in perfect condition, “could pay for a small house.”

-+-

It isn’t until later—after the box is tucked away in the basement and everyone, even Castiel, ate their fill of Dean’s pot roast—that Castiel comes to him, alone, without his shadow attempting to gouge a new hole in Dean’s body. Briefly, he checks to make sure Sam is in his room before he slowly shuts Dean’s bedroom door with barely a click.

Sitting up straighter, Dean dogears his paperback and sets it on the nightstand. Castiel stands in the doorway, hands fidgeting at his sides and head bowed low. Ashamed, maybe, or terrified. Over what, Dean doesn’t know. “You okay?” he asks.

Outside, the trees gust, and a steady rain falls, pinging on the roof of the Impala and the old Ford. Lit only by the light from Dean’s lone lamp, Dean watches Castiel tread closer, cast in a fluorescent glow. Gradually, he unbuttons his button-down. Dean swallows, fear settling into his gut. “Cas—”

But Castiel shakes his head. He pulls his shirt off with a visible wince and sits, his back facing Dean. His _back_. After the fact, Dean never looked at it, but he remembers how it felt to touch him when Castiel finally let him, how he drew the needle through his flesh and knitted him back together. It healed up well, but it might as well be a nightmare.

Castiel wraps his arms around his front, facing the television. In the dark, Dean can’t see his face in the reflection—doesn’t know if he’d be able to stomach looking at him, either. Soft, Dean pulls free from the covers and knees his way across the mattress, coming to rest a few inches from Castiel. “It looks better,” he says in consolation. He traces his thumb down the scar where once, Castiel’s wings sprouted. “Don't think it’s infected.”

“It’s not,” Castiel says, then sighs. “I looked at it in the mirror, after I showered. I’d been avoiding it when we were in Lebanon, because I knew what I’d find in my reflection. But seeing it…”

Slow, Dean draws his arms around Castiel’s waist, fitting their hands together. He rests his cheek against Castiel’s nape, listening to him breathe, to the faint beat of his heart. “How’s your Grace?”

Another sigh. Castiel dovetails their fingers, trembling. “It’s recovering. Slower than I’d like, but being here… helps. There’s a… peace here, that I never felt in Lebanon. We were protected, yes, but we were also surrounded by too many memories, too much darkness. I found myself staring at the walls, waiting for something to happen. For the world to end, for someone to break in and attack us in our sleep… I couldn't stand the silence.”

“Yeah.” Dean closes his eyes. “Yeah, I get it.”

Because as much as he loved the Bunker, it wasn't a place to spend the rest of their days. For one, Dean misses the sun, a luxury that only motels provided when they weren’t stuck underground. The sound of rain, the air when autumn rolls in, early morning fog—all things he couldn't get in Kansas, but can experience here, with Castiel at his side.

Speaking of. “Hey, come with me,” he says, and urges Castiel off the bed.

He makes the few steps it takes to slide into the dormer. Castiel steps inside, and together, they sit facing one another, limbs tangled, knees and ankles and feet jammed into places they shouldn't be. Just because he can, he closes the curtains behind them, shrouding them in darkness, only accompanied by the rain outside and the chill in the air. Castiel shivers. Dean takes his hands, holding them between his knees.

“I might put some lights up,” Dean says, bringing Castiel’s fingertips to his lips. “Y’know, those little string lights, just something so I can see you when I look at you.”

In the dark, Dean imagines Castiel is smiling, based on the noise he makes. Mirthful yet disbelieving. Dean wishes Castiel would _trust_ him. “You shouldn’t like me,” Castiel starts, his words barely audible. “You shouldn't confide in me like you do, Dean. All I’ve ever done is hurt you, and yet, you’re still here.”

“’Cause I’m an idiot,” Dean snorts. “I get too attached, but… This isn’t attachment, Cas. It’s not lust or whatever you’re thinking. You’re just…” He stops, touching Castiel’s fingers to his forehead. “You’ve always been there. Even when I was pissed at you, you were still there, and I can’t tell if you’re stupid or if you actually… If you love me too.”

Castiel pulls away, but not too far. A gentle hand comes up to cradle his face, and Dean leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m incredibly old,” Castiel says, soft as the rain. “I’ve been alive longer than your bloodline. I’ve lived with the sole purpose of loving humanity as God intended, but I was mindless. I had no purpose, no reason to exist, until…” A pause. “The moment I touched you, the moment I held your soul in my arms, I felt the epitome of love within you, and it did something to me that I never thought was possible.

“I began to feel. Love, hope, despair, fear, all of it was because of you.” Tentative, he presses his thumb to the corner of Dean’s lips. “It’s too easy to love you, Dean. Everyone who’s ever met you has fallen in love with you, and they remember your face, what you did for them. But they don’t know you the way I do. They don’t know your soul, they don’t feel your longing. You love until you ache, and it only breaks your heart in the end.

“And I’ll break it, too.” In the cramped confines of the dormer, Castiel leans forward to kiss him, knocking the wind from Dean’s lungs. “I’ll break your heart in hundreds of ways, and you’ll love it, because I’m the one who made you feel. And you make me feel, in turn. You opened my eyes, and I’ve learned that there’s more to life than being an angel. There’s the experiences, the feelings, the fact that every morning, I want to kiss you. I want to feel your body close to mine, and I want to—”

“Yeah.” Clearing his throat, Dean nods, probably too enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’s… Me too.” With Castiel’s face slowly coming into view, Dean touches his collar, his neck, trailing his fingers up to Castiel’s cheeks, where a fire burns. “Cas, it’s been…” He hides his face in Castiel’s throat, fighting back the emotion in his chest, threatening to boil over. “I’ve wanted this, with you. Always. I used to dream about it, what it’d be like if you stayed. Know the road’s no place for an angel, but I wanted you with us, and then you… One day, you just moved in, and I was too scared.”

He sniffles. “I wanted to tell you. Wanted to say that I’m glad you’re home, that you wanted to stay with us, but I couldn't… I didn’t think you’d stay. ‘Cause that’s all I’ve ever wanted is to have you here, and it’s like the world kept tearing us apart.” Castiel’s arms come up, drawing him into an embrace. Dean shudders and falls into him, his muscles protesting but his heart full. “I want you here, Cas. With me, always. Please, just… Please stay.”

In his throat, Castiel’s heart pounds. Dean can feel it wherever they touch, can feel Castiel’s reaction even more than he could by just looking at him. Lifting his head, he touches his lips to Castiel’s, barely a press before he pulls away. They come away wet, tasting of salt. Castiel’s tears glow under the pale light of the cloudy sky. “I’ll stay,” he says with a nod. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Think you want more than that,” Dean adds, and Castiel laughs, breathy.

“I’d like to have you,” Castiel says.

Dean nods and kisses him, chasing the love on his lips. “You got me,” he breathes. “Long as I got you too.”

A nod, brittle, like if he touched Castiel, he might shatter like glass. “I’m yours,” Castiel promises. “I’ve always been yours.”

-+-

A pine falls at some point overnight, crashing from the tree line into the clearing.

Dean wakes with a start, bolting upright as the branches crash to the ground. Outside, the wind howls, and in the faint distance, Dean hears the call—the one noise he heard so many times in Lebanon, but never had to worry about until now.

“Sammy,” he shouts and bolts out of bed, grabbing his robe along the way. Sam, ever the light sleeper, meets him before he can make it into the hallway, hair matted to the side of his head. “Basement, now. I’ll get Cas.”

“Right,” Sam grunts and heads for the stairs.

Castiel’s room is only a few feet from Sam’s, on the other side of the staircase. Lightning cracks, and thunder booms right after, startling Sonia from within. “Cas, wake up,” Dean says and bangs his fist on the door. “I know you’re up, come on—”

“Hold on,” Castiel huffs. He says something to Sonia that barely sounds like English and yanks open the door, the cat firmly wrapped in his sweatshirt-clad arms. “What’s—”

“Tornado,” Dean says, as calmly as he can muster. “Siren just went off, we gotta move.”

With a nod, Castiel follows him down the stairs and past the front door, into the living room, then the hall. The siren grows louder through the walls, only diminishing after Dean ushers Castiel into the basement and shuts the door behind them. Downstairs, Sam waits with a hurricane lantern, the only source of light in the entire space. Outside of the two small windows, Dean watches lightning flash and the weeds blow nearly horizontal. In Castiel’s arms, Sonia squirms and yowls, trying to find a place to hide.

 _This is my luck_ , Dean thinks, backing into the workbench. _I finally get a house, and a tornado rips it apart_.

“You still got that radio?” Dean asks over the noise of the wind.

From the washing machine, Sam shakes his head. “I left it upstairs. Didn’t think I’d need it tonight.”

Another thing to add to their to-do list—weather radio for the basement. None of them brought their phones either, leaving them to wait it out and hope the roof doesn’t collapse in on them.

Quiet, Castiel murmurs to Sonia while she continues to thrash around in his arms, probably even more terrified than the rest of them. Dean has been through this before—but that was decades ago, and in the tattered remains of a home on the west side of Kansas. John wasn’t around, and Sam was off in California, having the time of his life while hail pelted the Impala and Dean held the shelter door closed, praying to whoever was listening that he made it out alive. Then, the storm was right on top of him—now, it’s miles away, its path unknown, and all Dean can do now is wait for the end.

Minutes pass and the storm reaches its peak, the outside world filled with constant flashes of lightning and howling winds. Castiel sticks close, shoulder pressed against Dean’s, and Sam looks ready to bolt, eyes wild and frightened in a way Dean hasn't seen of him in years. The walls creak. Closing his eyes, he waits for it, for the sound of splintering wood and the inevitable crash.

But nothing comes. Lightning still flashes through his eyelids, but the pressure of the storm lifts, taking the wind with it. The rain, though, sticks around, soft enough that he can ignore it. A weight lifts from his shoulders. “I was wrong,” Dean says with a laugh. “I wanna move back.”

Sam laughs, half-hysteric and actually amused. “Too bad,” he says, wiping his eyes. “You’re stuck here now.”

-+-

The sun begins to peak through at sunrise, casting the clouds in reds and oranges. Standing on the porch with a mug of coffee in hand, Dean stares out at the clearing—and the five fallen trees, one blocking their only exit. Thankfully, nothing fell on the house or the pool, and all of their cars remain intact, aside from one or two spots where hail careened into the hoods.

All in all, they escaped unscathed, aside from their sanity. Nightmares still linger at the edge of Dean’s vision, and his hands shake, a tremor he hasn’t been able to shake off ever since he woke up. _This is how people get phobias_ , he thinks, leaning against the bannister. Coffee doesn’t help his nerves, but it wakes him up enough to be able to see without squinting against the light.

After a while, the screen door opens, obnoxiously loud for this time of morning. Dean looks up and finds Sam stumbling outside, hair in his face and looking about three cups under-caffeinated. Whether or not he slept after they headed upstairs, he has no clue—doesn’t remember much of anything, really, other than Castiel crawling into bed with him with the damn cat.

At the time, Dean didn't question it. Didn’t think much of it until he woke up with Castiel’s arms around him and a cat purring into his ear, like Castiel forgot his need for space and gave up waiting. For once, Dean doesn’t complain and savors the memory, wanting desperately to crawl back into bed with him. But he can’t sleep—can’t sit still, and Castiel needs to rest.

“I had a dream we were under attack,” Sam says, sitting in one of the rocking chairs. “Bunch of… squirrels in the attic that’d learned how to talk. They were gonna sacrifice us to the overlord.”

Dean would laugh, if he hadn’t had the same exact dream, except entirely different, with him being sucked to the bottom of the ocean, drowning in vivid detail. Every once in a while, that dream comes up, again and again, especially in times of stress. At some point in the night, it faded away, and he slept for a few blissful hours uninterrupted, comforted by silence and the inescapable press of something that no longer tangibly exists. He looks in the direction of the barn, stomach sour. “Yeah,” he yawns, “tell me about it.”

Sam, thankfully, doesn’t speak for another few minutes. Long enough for Dean to walk back inside and pour himself another cup, and Sam along with it. In silence, they sit and rock, watching the sky gradually clear and the reds of the sun fade to bright blue. Cold air seeps in, replacing humidity with a rush of winter all too early in the season. It feels normal, mundane.

Dean closes his eyes for a while, struggling not to drift off despite the caffeine in his veins. Occasionally, he hears Sam drink and something scurry in the trees. Probably the doe that watched him that first day, or Bigfoot—who knows anymore.

“What happened to Cas?” Sam asks, effectively ruining the mood. “I know how you found him, but… I’ve watched him walk, Dean. It’s like he’s in pain and he’s not saying anything.”

Of course he’s in pain, but not for the reason Sam thinks. Dean sucks in a breath and lets it out, slow, easing the guilt in his gut. It isn’t his business to tell, but Sam asked, and if Castiel had his way, he would never tell anyone, not even if someone threatened his life.

“When I found him…” Dean starts, closing his eyes. “What he told you about the demons, that wasn't a lie. But they were using him as bait to kill us both. They spent the last… God, I don't even know how long torturing him, and when I found him… He was dead, Sam. He barely had a pulse, and they’d strung him up by his wings in the barn. And the only way I could save him was…”

He stops, swallowing down bile. If remembering hurts this bad, then living through it must be torture. He’ll never be able to feel Castiel’s pain, will never understand the loss, not like Castiel does. “I cut off his wings,” he says. A few feet away, Sam inhales, his slow rock coming to a stop. “I called Rowena after I carried him here. She told me to fucking… tell him goodbye, because she didn't think he’d live through the night.”

“But he did,” Sam says.

And that’s the thing—Castiel _survived_. “I did what I had to,” he continues. “And he was just so… pissed. Think he’s always gonna be pissed at me, but I just—”

“He’d do the same for you,” Sam adds. Dean fills the empty space with coffee and staring down at his lap. “I see the way he looks at you, Dean. It’s kinda hard to ignore it, actually. It’s like you’ve got sunshine coming out of your ass.”

Dean nearly snorts his drink up his nose.

“I’m serious, it’s… Look.” Standing, Sam walks over and leans against the banister. “My point is. If you were in trouble, he’d do the same thing.”

“I don’t want him to cut off my leg,” Dean mumbles.

Sam’s brow softens. “You shouldn't feel guilty. You were doing what you could to save him.”

Dean knows—has rationalized circles around it, and it still doesn't make him feel any better, even after hearing Sam parrot it back. “What I did, I’ll never forget. I can’t forgive myself for that, and if he ever does, I still can’t… I cut off an angel’s wings, man. That’s like, an automatic ticket downstairs.”

“You think you’re…” Sam stops, rubbing his face with one hand. “Dean, you’re not going to Hell for that. I feel like after everything we’ve done, all the people we’ve pissed off, that Crowley would just throw us back out. And after the deal with Amara and Chuck, I’m pretty sure we’ve got an in.”

“Or we’ll be ghosts,” Dean mumbles. If Hell doesn’t want them and Heaven won’t take them, then what else does that leave?

“Dean.” Sam squeezes his shoulder; Dean struggles not to jerk away, solely out of habit. “We’re good, okay? You gotta trust me. And of course Cas is gonna forgive you, he always will.”

 _He shouldn't_ , Dean thinks. _All I’ve ever done is hurt him_.

Gradually, Sam’s lips turn downward, his eyes just as sad. “You really don’t think he will, do you?”

“Not this time.” Dean bows his head. “I really, really don't. Think about it, man. What if you were in the same spot? What if I’d just found you half dead with fucking—gangrene or something, and the only way I could save you is if I cut off your leg without asking you? It’s the same damn thing, I cut off a fucking limb. He woke up screaming, he was so…”

A tighter squeeze, a harder glare. “I’d understand,” Sam says. “Look, Dean. Sometimes, we have to do things we don’t want to, things we might even regret later, but in the end, it’s worth it if we come out the other end. You said it, you were trying to save Cas, and I know I’d do the same for you. But that doesn't mean it’s not messed up that it happened.

“You sold your soul to bring me back. And at the time, I was… I was fucking pissed. Because you didn't think about what I wanted, or yourself. That entire year, I tried to hold onto the time we had, because I thought that because of me, you were gonna die, and that was it.” Sam backs into the bannister, folding his arms over his stomach. “I hated you, for the longest time. And I loved you, because you gave a damn when no one else did. You saved me, Dean. No one ever did that for me before, and it… It took me years to forgive you. For that, and for the things you’ve done since, because I know you did them because you care.

“All I’m saying is, it’s gonna take time. It might take him a while, but he’ll come around.” Sam looks at him, hazel eyes soft enough to melt even the hardest of hearts. “You have to trust him.”

Leaning forward, Dean holds his head in his hands, mug resting precariously between his thighs. Too much adrenaline and too many confessions in too short a period of time. Over the years, Sam has seen him cry maybe a handful of times, but only under moments of duress—never like this, in utter silence, over something as simple as forgiveness. Soundless, he weeps, tears staining the fabric of his robe.

Kneeling, Sam pulls him into his arms, square hands pulling him close. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, Dean.”

It’s not okay—nothing he’s ever done has been okay, his motives driven purely by desperation, out of fear of being left alone. And now, he did it again, and to his best friend, no less. The friend he left upstairs in his bed, the friend that came to him and told him the truth in vivid detail. The friend he loves.

 _I love him_ , he thinks, sinking his fingers into the back of Sam’s shirt. _And I can’t even look at him anymore_.

-+-

Sometime between breakfast and Dean returning to his room, Sonia broke out and began to wreak havoc across the upper floor, ranging from Sam’s toiletries being flung into the hallway, to all of her toys scattered across Castiel’s room. Castiel slept through it all, curled onto his side with the covers yanked over his head in a vain attempt to block out the sun.

The clock on the wall reads eight-twenty. Too late to sleep in, but too early to crawl back into bed. Dean does it anyway, pulling the sheets up and letting them fall. Beneath, he finds Castiel seemingly asleep, eyes shut and Sonia tucked up against him, purring so loud that Dean mistakes it for snoring. He’s beautiful like this, with his eyes soft and lips slack, his jaw touchable. Dean runs his knuckles across it, just because he can, Castiel’s stubble strangely soft.

“I know you can hear me,” he whispers and lays his hand over Castiel’s shoulder. “Stop playing dead.”

“I’m not dead,” Castiel mutters, turning his face into the sheets. Sonia trills and opens her eyes, her third eyelid half-retracted. “Did I follow you to bed?”

“Think you sleepwalked,” he chuckles, stroking through Castiel’s hair. “Not exactly complaining.”

“There was a time when I used to love storms,” Castiel mumbles. He rubs his eye, then narrows it, a lone pupil fixated on him. “You’ve been crying.”

Right—of course Castiel can tell. “I do that,” Dean says with a halfhearted smile. “Been a hell of a day.”

Soft, Castiel touches his thumb to the skin beneath Dean’s eye, gathering up the residual tears that stubbornly still fall. “What’s wrong?”

 _Everything_. The world isn’t ending, his family is whole once again, and Castiel is in his bed. Everything he’s ever wanted, but none of it feels real. “I don’t deserve this,” Dean mutters, still managing to grin despite it all. “None of it, Cas, and you know it. I should be dead in a ditch somewhere. I should’ve been in your place, but instead I’m here—”

Castiel presses a finger to Dean’s lips, his jaw set. “It’s too early for self-loathing,” he says, but edges closer anyway, much to Sonia’s disapproval. “You’re exhausted, Dean. All of your life, you’ve bounced from one crisis to the next, and you’ve never given yourself the time to cope or to grieve, or to process the things you’ve witnessed, that you’ve experienced. You live in a constant state of fight or flight, and the second you give yourself a chance to relax and to reflect, all you can see is the blood on your hands and the damage you’ve done.

“But there’s good there, too.” Castiel tangles their legs together, ankles crossed and cold toes brushing. Between them, Sonia wrenches away from Castiel and leaves, apparently dissatisfied with the noise; she jumps over Dean atop the covers, followed by a thud and a scurry, and the tinkling of bells from down the hall. “Dean, look at me.”

Dean can’t. Castiel forces him to with a finger under his chin, tipping his head up. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispers, blinking against the blur in his eyes. “I thought if I came here, that it’d solve all my problems. That we’d just move in and forget hunting and do boring shit like watch TV and sit on the porch, but all I can think about is what I did to you.” He wipes his eyes, his hand coming away wet. “All the ways I’ve used you, and tried to push you away, and then I went and did… that, and you’re still here. What do I have to do to make you leave?”

Castiel’s face falls, eyes half-lidded, lips parted into a sad smile. “I’m smarter than you let yourself believe,” he whispers. “I know you, Dean. I know your tactics, I know how your mind works. How when you want someone bad enough, you push them away just so you can’t be hurt later. But that’s the inevitable truth. We’ll hurt each other in so many ways, and you’re scared that one day, you’ll do something so… heinous, that I’ll leave. I don’t have any plans to leave your side, Dean.”

Cautious, Castiel draws an arm around Dean’s waist. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

 _I can’t_. Closing his eyes, Dean imagines being anywhere other than here, somewhere far away from Castiel’s touch. “I need you to forgive me,” he says, hating how broken he sounds, how desperate he is just for those three words. “I need you to tell me that it’s okay.”

Tender, Castiel sweeps his knuckles across Dean’s cheek. Lips press to his own, only deepening the shame in Dean’s chest, the guilt plaguing his stomach. “What you did, you shouldn’t’ve had to,” Castiel says, wiping Dean’s eyes dry. “It wasn’t right, but it’s what you had to do. Everything you’ve ever done was to save the ones you care for the most. The ones you love. It’s taken me a while to reconcile, to live with the loss, but I’ve come to realize that my wings aren’t what I need.

“What I need is here, in front of me.” Another kiss, this one to the space between his eyes. “I have a house, a yard, a cat. I have my family, a family that’s never left me behind. A family that loves me, and that would do anything for me. I ache, Dean. I’ve ached since the moment I woke that day, and for as long as I live, I’ll bear that pain. But pain is a part of life, and it’s a life that I’ve chosen to live, because of you.”

“Cas,” Dean says, but Castiel cuts him off with a kiss.

“It’s alright,” Castiel murmurs. “It’s alright, Dean. I forgive you.”

All of the air leaves Dean’s lungs in that one second, the full extent of his anguish washing over him, accompanied by such a dramatic relief that he can’t help but sob, held together solely by Castiel’s hands. And worst of all, Castiel joins him, peppering salt-laden kisses into his hair while he weeps, soundless, such a stark contrast to Dean. Always so different, yet everything Dean has ever wanted. Someone to listen to him, to support him—to love him, unconditionally and real, to the very depth of what makes Castiel an angel. Something so human embodied in something so holy, all because of Dean.

Dean did the impossible—he taught an angel to love, and that angel turned around and loved him in return.

-+-

He finds the lake later in the day, a few dozen feet from the collapsed wreckage of the barn. It sits in the middle of a thicket of trees, wide enough to maybe row a canoe in and swim come summertime, and to fish, most importantly.

Sitting on the dock, Dean dangles his bare feet in the water, cooling by the day and murky around the banks. On the far end, he can see another house similar to his own, with a manicured lawn and a putting green with a small with a yellow flag adorning the top of the pin. 

He could do that. As soon as he figures out where the lawnmower is and finds enough gas to get it to crank, he’ll mow and pick up limbs, and cut down the trees that fell overnight. Something to keep him busy while the itch under his skin builds, the incessant need to keep moving, to get back on the road and to wrap his hands around something sharp. A learned behavior that he can’t shake, no matter how old he gets.

One day, he’ll get back in the car, just to take Baby out for a drive, or to pile everyone in and find the next hunt. Probably next week, considering how antsy he feels just sitting around, but he has another few days to relax, to bask in the sheer concept of having nothing to do, and a place to do it in. The sun travels idly in the sky, the clouds drift by with the breeze, and everything just… makes sense.

Two sets of footsteps greet him after a long few minutes. Rather than looking around to see just who it is, Dean stares straight ahead, hands in his lap and toes cold. Someone kicks off their shoes and sit at his side. The other sidles close, leaving a kiss to Dean’s nape before he settles into the spot to his left. How three grown men can fit on a dock barely made for one, he has no clue, but they manage it, jostled limbs and all.

“The wings are gone,” Castiel says. He rests his head atop Dean’s shoulder and finds Dean’s hand without even trying, lacing their fingers atop Dean’s thigh. “Sam and I looked through the rubble, but it’s likely they broke down before the collapse.”

“Storm probably took it out,” Sam offers. “Figure we can scrap the wood for something, maybe build a garage?”

A garage sound nice. In fact, anything sounds better than leaving their cars sitting in the elements. “Could probably do that,” he says. “Gotta do something around here before I start tearing down wallpaper.”

“No way,” Sam laughs. “You leave the dining room alone.”

“It’s an abomination, Sam,” Castiel counters. At least he has someone on his side here. “Floral patterns have their place, but there are too many mums and I can’t look at them without my eyes crossing.”

The bickering continues, but Dean tunes it out, more interested in the breeze than anything they might have to say. Somehow, the conversation works back around to him, almost escaping his notice, if it weren’t for Castiel squeezing his hand. “Did you hear what Sam said?”

Admittedly, he didn't.

“Have you looked for any cases today?” Sam asks, sounding hesitant.

If they were back at the bunker, Sam wouldn't even ask. Dean would’ve woken up with a laptop shoved in his face filled with all the gory details. But this isn’t the bunker—it’s home, and home is where they rest. “No offense, but I could sleep for a week,” Dean says. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Sam smile and turn away. “Seriously, ask in a week and I might say yes.”

“Good deal,” Sam says. “Cable guy’s gonna come tomorrow.”

“I’m behind on General Hospital,” Castiel says, like Dean is supposed to know that he’s been watching soap operas daily. “The cell service here is—”

“Awful, yeah,” Dean laughs. Hopefully as soon as they connect to some halfway decent Wi-Fi, he can check to see if anyone’s called him. “Anyone up for lunch? Somewhere better than IHOP, where we have to dress up just to get in.”

“Dean, we never do that,” Sam accuses with the slightest bit of mirth in his voice. “And it’s too early in the day for wine.”

“It’s never too early to celebrate,” Dean says. “C’mon, we got Cas back, we just moved into a bitchin’ new house, and I haven’t had breakfast. Least we can do is go for a drive.”

Castiel makes a noise of agreement, squeezing Dean’s hand tighter. “We should take the Ford.”

Dean lifts a brow. “Oh, is that what you think? Baby’s not good enough for you?”

“She’s perfectly adequate,” Castiel huffs. “But we have more than one car now.”

“And she’s nice, trust me,” Sam says. “But she’s more of a Sunday driver. I mean, how many cars like that have you see on the road?”

In all of Dean’s life, maybe a handful, if he’s lucky. “Look, we’ll take Baby today,” he starts, then whispers into Castiel’s ear, hopefully low enough that Sam can’t make out, “and we’ll take her out tonight, how about that?”

A red flush heats Castiel’s cheeks as he nods. “I named her Sabrina.”

“There we go,” Dean chuckles. “Sam, you gotta name the bikes.”

“Come on,” Sam groans, and Dean earns an elbow to the ribs.

They should get up and leave—should do anything other than sit there laughing, but Dean can’t find it in himself to ruin the moment, to look anywhere other than the lake and his family at his side. Their home isn’t going anywhere, and the rest of the world can wait.

 _I’m forgiven_ , Dean thinks, turning his face to the sun. _We’re free_.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I don't know where I was going with this originally but it spiralled out of hand. And what's worse is, I could probably tack on another chapter and still have more to write. I just wanted to write a happy story where they get to reno a house but no, there's pain and sad and Dean cries a lot! I hope it's at least legible! OTL
> 
> Title is from the George Strait song. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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